


The Template Called Language

by yesterday4



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-09
Updated: 2009-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-09 11:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: Ginny and Pansy have had enough of Hermione and Draco fighting.  Sometimes it’s what you don’t say that matters, and, with a little meddling spellwork, the two girls are determined to make their friends figure this out.  Post-Hogwarts, during the war.  One-shot.





	The Template Called Language

**Author's Note:**

> This is really embarrassingly fluffy. I don't where it came from. lol. Apologies for any cavities this might cause, as well as any OOC-ness.

**Title:** The Template Called Language  
 **Author:** yesterday4  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Disclaimer:** Sadly, everyone still belongs to Ms. Rowling.  
 **Author's Note:** This is really embarrassingly fluffy. I don't where it came from. lol. Apologies for any cavities this might cause, as well as any OOC-ness.  
 **Summary:** Ginny and Pansy have had enough of Hermione and Draco fighting. Sometimes it’s what you don’t say that matters, and, with a little meddling spellwork, the two girls are determined to make their friends figure this out. Post-Hogwarts, during the war. One-shot.

  
****

The Template Called Language

_“It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small or in any case always the wrong size to fit the template called language…”_

\- Jeanette Winterson, Light Housekeeping

**Hour One**

“—and while we’re on that topic, you bushy haired shrew, let’s examine all of the reasons why the Weasel left you, proving to be much smarter than I ever gave him credit for when—”

“When what, Malfoy? Are you honestly going to stand there and give me relationship advice when your daddy handpicked your bride _for_ you? You do know what century this is, you inbred—”

“Oh yes, inbred. How terribly creative of you. What next? Bloody ferret? Death Eater scum? As I was so insightfully pointing out, no man in his right mind would want to tie himself to a prudish stick in the mud McGonagall clone—”

“I am not a stick in the mud! And McGonagall is respectable in every way. She is absolutely beyond reproach, not that I can imagine one who models himself in every conceivable fashion after a man who has proven himself to be shady beyond belief and—”

“Don’t you dare talk about Snape to me!”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me again! If you’re so superior to me, then you’d think you’d have learned some manners by now.”

“ _You_ interrupted me first! It’s impossible to finish a sentence with you around. It’s absolutely impossible for you to focus.”

“Actually, Malfoy, _you_ were the one going off on tangents at the mere mention of a potion that just might-- _might_ \--in some ways be similar to a love potion. That was all you.”

And on and on it went.

In the living room at Grimmauld Place, rooms away from the argument currently going on in the study, Ginny Weasley clenched her eyes shut and pressed the back of her hand into her forehead. With a world weary sigh that was largely headache induced, Ginny realized for what had to be the hundredth time that night alone that she was nearing the end of her rope. Now, Ginny’s rope had never been particularly long, but she was absolutely certain she had displayed nothing but patience during the last three months—and it had been three months of constant fighting, ever since Malfoy had shown up with Harry at Grimmauld Place, hand in hand with a subdued looking Pansy Parkinson. He had bartered for their freedom and had won Harry’s trust; all Ginny had won was a nightly migraine.

“I’ve taken all I can take,” she said aloud. “I cannot handle one more ridiculous fight. Those two simply should not be allowed to work together. It’s hard to imagine they ever get anything accomplished, the way they carry on.”

“Yes. Meeting Voldemort might be preferable to listening to one more word, wouldn’t it?”

This lazy drawl came from an armchair near the fireplace, where Pansy Parkinson sat meticulously analyzing her fingernails. Her exterior looked as cool as ever, but Ginny knew her well enough now to guess at her annoyance. The most surprising thing to come out of the three months since the Slytherins had arrived was how Ginny felt about Pansy. Ginny loved Hermione to death and absolutely considered her a best mate, but in Pansy she had found a true kindred spirit. Only recently had Ginny begun to notice Ron noticing Pansy and she couldn’t have approved more.

The sound of something breaking in the study echoed down the hall and into the living room. Pansy groaned and pressed at her eyes.

“They’re worse than children,” she observed. “I wish they’d shag and get it over with.”

Whatever Hermione said next was lost in the pure fury of her tone. Through clenched teeth, Ginny asked, “Do you think that would help?”

“It couldn’t hurt. Merlin knows they can’t talk through their problems.”

Ginny grunted at that, not in the least bit put out by the idea of Hermione doing the nasty with Malfoy. Not if it would bring sweet blessed silence. Besides, Ginny had known Hermione for a long time, and she caught the looks her friend sometimes sent Malfoy’s way, strictly when he wasn’t looking. She had suspected almost from the start that all of the bluster and anger was masking something else, and she suspected it of Malfoy too. It was as though his defection to their side had opened doors neither had imagined even existed—and it had truly made everything worse.

Sadly, though, Pansy was right. There was simply no way the two of them could be expected to talk through anything, not when the most simple conversations erupted into epic battles worthy of being told through generations—if they weren’t so unbelievably petty. Any feelings they might have been harbouring for one another were carried away nightly on fits of apoplectic rage.

“What has Draco missed?” Pansy mused. “He’s insulted her clothing, her hair, her general manner, her intelligence. Surely this has got to be approaching an end.”

“Her breeding?” Ginny suggested, although it had been a long time since Malfoy had muttered the word _Mudblood_ in any of their presence. “She’s giving as good as she gets too.”

Pansy shrugged, her lips tightening into a harsh line. “I do wish there was some way of shutting them up, if even just for an hour or two.”

“Do you have any idea what this shirt even costs?” came an indignant shout down the hall. “How dare you abuse me in such a manner!”

Ginny closed her eyes again and counted to ten. It was too much, this, when stress was already running so high. Harry and Ron, who would have once intervened on Hermione’s behalf, had learned their lesson and were currently out of the house. Ginny too knew better than to step in—why add fuel to the fire? But really. She had had it.

Hermione and Malfoy needed to work out their issues, or they needed to be permanently separated, reprimanded like the children they were resembling. Perhaps, mused Ginny, there was just too much to talk about.

Then, just like that, the proverbial light bulb switched on. Feeling hope engulf her, Ginny opened her eyes and smiled at Pansy, who must have seen something in her grin because her own eyes lit up with feverish delight.

“Oh, you have a plan!” she exclaimed.

Ginny let her smile seep into a smirk. “Oh, do I ever.”

**

Hermione Granger felt like crying. She knew that was an idiotic response to the matter at hand, but there it was. She was emotionally taxed, emotionally drained, and emotionally _done_ with this situation.

They had been working on an idea involving a potion that could conjure up fake affection, with the idea that it might help with interrogations. That had led to a debate on the legalities of love potions, which had led to Malfoy pointing out quite unhelpfully that that was the only way she was ever going to keep a man. This had led to a rather explosive discussion about their collective love lives, which was when Hermione’s coffee cup had somehow accidentally slipped out of her hand, almost beaming Malfoy in the process and leaving a trail of brown liquid down what was apparently a shirt worth more than her very existence.

Merlin help her, Draco Malfoy was just too much.

“I know you were trying to kill me with that cup,” he was currently saying, swiping at his shirt with a handkerchief and glaring at her suspiciously. “I wish you could have seen the look in your eyes. You’re absolutely off your bird.”

“Oh, Malfoy, do shut up. It was an accident,” she hissed, wishing he would go away forever.

“If that’s how you plan on presenting it in court,” he replied, still eyeing her warily.

Hermione let a gust of air out of her nose and turned her back on him for a moment’s clarity. It was a pity really, because she didn’t hate Malfoy, not anymore. She even perhaps admired the courage it must have taken to turn his back on his father, to show up and have to beg for sanctuary at the door of his enemy, not just for himself but also for his once-upon-time fiancée, Pansy. He was particularly adept at potions, and had a certain intelligence that could most likely have rivalled her own. He was not bad on the eyes, not really, and he had great, if biting, wit. Sometimes, she almost caught herself thinking wildly inappropriate things in regards to him, but she was always quick to stomp them out, and to bury them away.

He was just so very impossible to be around.

Behind them, the door to the study opened and slammed shut. Turning back around, Hermione saw Ginny and Pansy enter, and felt a rush of relief. Malfoy, apparently, shared it.

“She tried to murder me with her coffee cup,” Malfoy accused, presumably to Pansy. He even stretched one long finger witheringly in Hermione’s direction. Hermione huffed and crossed her arms. “Can you believe the nerve of—”

Pansy’s wand came out of nowhere. Smiling sympathetically at Malfoy, who clearly thought she was about to hex Hermione, Pansy pointed it at her old friend, and said, “ _Silencio_!”

Whatever Malfoy had been in the middle of saying was cut off mid-sentence. Hermione watched his eyes bulge with surprise, watched him attempt again and again to speak. So focused was she on her once nemesis’ fate that she did not see Ginny move to near the table where their wands rested atop their notes, nor did she see her friend pocket them with a sly smile.

“Bloody brilliant!” Hermione praised, laughing harder when Malfoy sent her a reproachful glare. The efforts of speaking were turning his face the most amusing shade of purple. “I say, Pansy, I didn’t know you had it in you!”

But before she could say more, Hermione found herself staring down Ginny’s wand. Bewilderment overtook her. Surely, her best friend wasn’t going to—

“ _Silencio_ ,” betrayed Ginny, with a positively evil smirk.

It felt like fingers were shoved down Hermione’s throat, grabbing and twisting and rendering her silent. She choked, coloured, and spluttered, all without making so much as a peep.

She and Malfoy, suddenly united against a common enemy, exchanged a rather panicked look. So, unfortunately, did Pansy and Ginny. With one last smug giggle, they turned around and high-tailed it from the room. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Hermione listened to the door be spelled locked.

She went for her wand as was natural, only to realize with extreme frustration that it was gone. Malfoy, it seemed, had already guessed at that, and had moved to pound on the door.

“Let me out,” Hermione tried to say, annoyed when soundless breath was all that passed through her lips. She joined Malfoy, only to engage in a juvenile battle over the prime position at the door. For good measure, she elbowed him in the side; he retaliated by putting his hand in her face to hold her backwards. Just barely, she managed not to bite him.

“Terribly sorry!” someone shouted from behind the solid wood—Hermione suspected Ginny. “Only we can’t take you two anymore. You clearly can’t _talk_ through your issues, so we thought to offer you an alternative. Take all night if you need to!”

Bloody hell, thought Hermione, resting her head against the door and, consequently, Malfoy’s hand. Bloody bloody hell.

**  
 **Hour Two**  
  
Silence, pondered Hermione, was a strange thing. Noises she had never noticed before suddenly seemed impossibly loud: the clock on the mantel was ticking away, fuelling her indignation at her mistreatment, and Malfoy, pacing back and forth in front of her, was huffing out his anger and frustration. For the moment, he seemed to have forgotten he was angry at her, and Hermione was fine with that.

Hermione was fine with not being angry. Anger was a distraction, and Hermione needed to focus. Hermione needed out of this room. All of Malfoy’s crazy pacing was driving her batty, and his strange eyes were positively aglow with rage. A batty Hermione and a rage filled Malfoy had never been a good combination.

Only the way Hermione saw it, the two of them were well and truly stuck. She had tried banging on the door, certain she could annoy Ginny into freeing her, but ten minutes of that had left her with sore fists and little else. Next, Malfoy had tried picking the lock with bits of things he’d located in the desk but, against magic, that had gotten them nowhere.

Back and forth went Malfoy, billowing this way and that in a manner very reminiscent of their old professor.

This was cruel and unusual punishment, Hermione was certain. And to think she’d thought of putting in a good word for Pansy with Ron. Unbelievable. Sniffing to herself, she resumed what she had been doing before, which was sadly watching Malfoy.

Suddenly, he stopped pacing and came at Hermione with a shot. A tiny bit of fear ran through her belly; abruptly, he was very much in her space and his hand was actually touching her arm. The contact paralyzed her—never before had Malfoy touched her on purpose or without evil intentions. Then she noticed he was pointedly looking between her and the only window in the study, which was over both of their heads. He mimed giving her a boost, waggling his eyebrows in what she could only interpret as a hopeful manner. Thinking it was lost on her, he mimed it again; to Hermione, it looked very much as if he meant to chuck her through the window.

The idea of getting a boost didn’t fill Hermione with glee, but she was a practical woman. Toeing off her shoes, she marched to the window and offered Malfoy one stocking covered foot when he kneeled down in front of her. Sighing, he folded his hands around her foot and pushed up. She pretended she didn’t hear the whoosh of breath that was obviously a grunt.

Balance had never been Hermione’s forte, but she tried her hardest to stay close to the wall while grappling for the window’s latch. After a moment or two, Malfoy’s arms started to shake—a glance down showed that he was swearing at her soundlessly—so she redoubled her efforts, stretching her fingers as high as she could. Ignoring how much she was about to annoy him, she propped her other foot on his shoulder and applied some weight, trying to push herself upwards.

There was a moment, and then hot breath was tickling her calve muscle, through her stocking. Annoyed, Hermione glanced down and had two horrible realizations at the same time. Firstly, Malfoy, the git, was laughing at her. Secondly, in the position she had so readily put herself, there was simply no way he couldn’t _not_ see up her skirt. Flustered and embarrassed, she pushed away from the wall, nearly tumbling off Malfoy, and retreated to the couch, where she sat with her legs primly crossed and her hands folded in her lap.

“Pervert,” she mouthed, feeling her cheeks turn crimson. The rage had left his strange eyes; now, all she saw was amusement.

Malfoy shot her a rather smarmy look, which improved his general countenance muchly. She pretended it did not. She also pretended not to be at all aware of the fact that she was wearing the least sexy panties ever. A McGonagall clone indeed. Curse her knickers straight to hell.

Across the room, Malfoy was still cracking himself up. He gestured at her, gestured at himself, and managed to mime with alarming clarity what could only be a lap dance, before dissolving again into silent guffaws. He even had the nerve to give her two thumbs up.

It was absolutely beyond the pale. Glowering, Hermione glared at the door. There were other ways to reach the window, she supposed. For example, she could sit on Malfoy’s shoulders, and possibly hoist herself out that way. Then, she could let herself in through the front, hex the stuffing out of Pansy and Ginny, and free Malfoy—after an appropriate amount of time, of course. Sadly, Hermione had no plans of going anywhere near him. She could perhaps prop herself up on a chair, but the distance down from the window was alarming—a thought that failed to register earlier.

Resigned to her fate, Hermione leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the weird gusty sounds Malfoy was making as he laughed.

**  
 **Hour Three**

When it had happened, Draco had not believed for one instant that Pansy Parkinson, his dearest friend and ally, would ever leave him hexed and locked up for longer than two hours. He had, however, been watching the clock, and each passing moment sucked at his resolve to hold onto hope. It was nearing ten o’clock now, and he had not heard so much as a peep from those two evil witches since getting stuck three hours ago.

It was grossly unfair.

Wearily, he rubbed at his neck and stared at Granger, who had moved behind the desk to read over the notes they’d already taken on the potion they were attempting to create. He wanted to see them too, but found himself entirely too tired to engage in even so much as a silent battle with her. It was beyond frustrating, really it was; Granger was always _at_ him. It didn’t seem to matter how innocent his actions were, how noble his intentions. The girl’s temper was absolutely explosive. He was certain she was homicidally insane.

Still, it was a giant pity. Out of everyone here, she had been the slowest to accept him and, for some strange reason he really didn’t want to explore, her acceptance had come to mean a great deal to him. He suspected that the two of them would make an invaluable team, if she could only control her temper and cease provoking him for longer than five minutes.

On second thought, perhaps this hex wasn’t so bad.

Tilting his chair back, Draco let out a loud exhale, followed by a noisy inhale. Hearing himself breathe was strangely comforting, and so he continued, pondering Granger’s knickers as he did so. White cotton, he thought, and terribly unflattering from the look he’d gotten. He imagined them to be just the sort of knickers girls who never got shagged would wear, but he didn’t find them as off-putting as he ought. Pansy had had an excellent collection of very sexy knickers, which had been terribly exciting, but Granger’s seemed somewhat… sweet, in a way. Draco was, in no way, shape, or form, used to sweet.

In truth, he continued to ponder, Granger in her entirety was not as off-putting as she had once been. Her keen wit was an asset, and she had grown into her horrid teeth and frizzy hair. She was hopelessly bookish, that was true, but there was something to be said for the naughty librarian. He’d always fancied doing it in the stacks and—

A snort from across the room drew his gaze to the girl in question. She was glowering at him and, when he looked, she pointed at him and plugged her nose. They meaning was entirely lost on Draco, who knew he didn’t smell, until she began huffing and puffing. Ahh, so his breathing was bothering her. For effect, he continued for a few more seconds. Satisfaction washed over him; he could feel the annoyance emanating from her all the way across the room. Closing his eyes, he put a great deal of effort into breathing as loud as he possibly could.

It was a surprise then when a piece of paper slapped against his face. Spluttering, he pulled at it, seeing Granger, who had moved, glowering at him from beside his legs. Rolling his eyes at her dramatics, he glanced down at the paper.

STOP BREATHING LIKE THAT OR IT WILL BE THE LAST THING YOU DO, he read. She had written the note in all capitals, neat and straight. Smirking at her, he strained to reach a quill, and wrote WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO, THROW SOMETHING ELSE AT MY HEAD? YOU’VE ALREADY BROKEN YOUR CUP, AND YOU HAVE NO WAND. NOT VERY FRIGHTENING.

Snatching the paper back, Granger scowled and scribbled away for quite sometime. Then, she presented the paper back with a smug smile.

MUGGLES CAN BE VIOLENT WITHOUT WANDS. I’LL SIMPLY DO YOU IN THE MUGGLE WAY. IMAGINE THE HEADLINES: MALFOY, FAMOUS DEATH EATER TURNED HARRY POTTER FAN, FELLED NOT BY MAGIC BUT BY MUGGLE INSTRUMENT OF DEATH.

That had Draco smirking. Using his thigh to write on, he circled the word ‘fan’ and wrote HARDLY above it; then he underlined “Muggle instrument of death” and wrote VERY DRAMATIC, BUT NOT VERY SCARY. To "do you in the Muggle way", he wrote PROMISE? Next, he circled his own name, and scrawled DRACO above it. He felt oddly self-conscious handing it back, which just was not on, but he didn’t think he could hear her spit her surname once more without snapping.

An odd look settled on Granger’s face. “Draco,” she mouthed. Then, pointing at herself, “Hermione.”

“Hermione,” he echoed, learning the feel of his breath snaking across his lips in time with the syllables of her name.

She surprised him by flushing slightly. Shoving the paper at him, she walked briskly back to the desk and resumed her perusal of their notes—sans his loud breathing. Draco watched her, curly tendrils of hair framing her face as she bent over the paper, and felt something unsettling stir in the pit of his stomach.

Sending Granger a put out look, he abandoned the paper, went to the door, and rattled the knob. He had to get out of here; he had secrets he never wanted to examine. Only there was nothing from the other side of the door, he realized, nothing at all. All around him was silence.

**  
 **Hour Four**

Hermione knew a moment of hope when she heard Harry and Ron come home, banging through the front door and up the steps. Exchanging a brilliant look with Mal-Draco, they’d both been at the door in a shot, hammering away. Nothing, sadly, had happened; she suspected that Harry and Ron had met with Ginny and Pansy. A tiny smidgeon of hope insisted that they still wouldn’t leave her here, but then, high over her head, she’d heard the unmistakable noise of her friends going to bed.

Damn them all to hell. Hermione had never been so betrayed in all of her life, she was certain of it.

Feeling rather traitorous herself, Hermione eyed Draco, who had moved from the uncomfortable chair to the floor, where he was currently leaning against the wall staring off at nothing. How strange to _think_ of him as Draco, as though they were more than acquaintances, more than colleagues, more than once-upon-a-time enemies. She could admit in the privacy of her own head that she’d wanted to be friends with him since he’d shown up, as a sort of acknowledgement of his change of heart, but every biting word that fell from his lips, every defensive insult he hurled, had her doubting that he liked her at all. _Draco_ implied friendship.

_Draco_ began banging his head against the wall. Rolling her eyes, Hermione stood and rubbed at the small of her back. Then, rather cautiously, she went to join him on the floor, wincing when his face snapped in her direction, wary blinders closing over his odd no-discernable-colour eyes.

Silence.

Feeling awkward, Hermione began to steal surreptitious glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He had pulled his knees up and was resting his hands on top. On the back of his left one, nearest her, she saw a scar, long and narrow, that ran under the sleeve of his shirt and out of her sight. Curious, as always, she touched it with her fingernail, raising an eyebrow in inquiry at Malfoy.

Draco. Old habits, and all that.

He jerked at her touch, sending her a shocked look, so Hermione withdrew her hand at lightening speed. She was just working her way into a truly offended snit when Draco smiled at her in a charmingly boyish manner she’d never seen before.

He pointed at the window and mimed shoving his hand through it. Then, he undid the buttons on his shirt near his wrist, and rolled up the fabric so that she could see it extend up his forearm. It wasn’t a new scar. The jagged line was even paler than his skin.

Not to be outdone, Hermione reached up her skirt as primly as possible, yanking down one stocking. She showed Draco her knee, where the scar she’d gained years ago in the Department of Mysteries was still very much apparent. She tried to explain it to him, only to frustrate herself when hand gestures failed to get her point across. Draco shook his head at her, reaching out to touch her scar as she had his.

Next, she gestured at her bare shin. This was a newer scar, one she had obtained in her only actual battle with Draco before his famous defection. She’d been chasing him up some stairs, and he’d hit her with a curse that had sent her flying. She remembered the moment perfectly, if only because she knew-- _knew_ \--down to her very bones that he had had a very clear shot, that he could have killed her. She remembered her weakness in the moment, shameful, and his moment of shocking mercy. Pointing from him to her leg, she wondered if he remembered too.

Draco pursed his lips and stared at her leg. Then, he surprised her by unbuttoning the bottom of his shirt, revealing strange twisted marks across his belly. He pointed at himself and at her, and, unable to mime the actions for the Killing Curse, pretended to strangle himself instead. He indicated his covered wrist, where she knew the Dark Mark lay hidden, repeatedly, miming many Death Eaters. Then he rapped himself on the back of his hand, showing punishment.

Astonishment shot through Hermione. He hadn’t killed her, and he had paid what looked to be a very painful price. Never had she considered what that mercy might have cost him, which seemed unforgivably short-sighted on her behalf. Strange feelings twisted deep in her belly, and she couldn’t stop herself from moving her hand to his stomach, pressing her palm against the mangled skin. He inhaled sharply, watching her fingers trace his old injury. His skin was warm—idiotically, she had always imagined everything about him to be cold and unforgiving—and it took a great effort to remove her hand from his person.

When she did, she made the mistake of glancing up, meeting Draco’s gaze. Something odd lurked in his eyes, and she felt it in herself, wrapping around her insides and sending a strange heat all the way down to her toes. She felt self-conscious and bare without the ability to change the mood with a scathing retort, without the ability to send him packing with a glib insult she wouldn’t have meant at all.

“Thank you,” she mouthed.

He held her gaze for a long time. Then, he nodded, and buttoned his shirt before leaning his head back against the wall. Hermione stared at the white fabric across his stomach, lost in thought and damned by their silence.

**  
 **Hour Five**

Hermione was severely regretting throwing—err, dropping—her coffee cup at Draco before finishing its contents. She was so thirsty swallowing was becoming a bit of a challenge and even knowing that drinking would mean the eventual urge to use the loo did not seem off-putting. She was fairly certain she would kill for a glass of water. While she was at it, perhaps a little something to eat might do the trick as well.

Right on cue, her stomach growled, the noise slicing through the silence with alarming clarity. Draco, who had been dozing beside her, opened one eye. Hermione, lingeringly embarrassed from the incident with her knickers, found herself embarrassed further still. She was certain that if he could speak he would say something in regards to Purebloods and their lack of bodily functions. As it was, a moment passed, and then his stomach growled too.

Right. In this horrible mess together, and all that.

Slouching down, Hermione stared at Malfoy. He looked terribly uncomfortable—his neck was cricked at an awful angle—and rather worse for wear after their fight, a good hour of pacing, and another four of lazing about waiting to be freed.

With his eyes closed and his face relaxed, she was alarmed to note that he was not at all ugly. She wondered if this was what he looked like with his close friends, with the people he didn’t bother putting on the sneering-smirking-cold-arrogant arse show for. He had certainly never looked at her in a relaxed way before. She felt very aware of the scars on his stomach.

“Stop it,” he mouthed, but his eyes remained closed so Hermione simply didn’t bother.

She wondered from time to time what had been Draco’s breaking point. Harry suggested asking, but Hermione and Draco had never been that intimate. All she really knew was that _something_ had gone down—something bad enough that he hadn’t bothered leaving with any stealth. The Death Eaters knew of his changing allegiance, and he was very much a wanted man. As it was, he got on well enough with Ron and with Harry, but never with her; this, she secretly found to be too bad.

A yawn caught Hermione off guard, but there was no way she was going to sleep like Draco. Rising, she gathered up the cushions from all the chairs in the room, turning them into a makeshift mattress on the floor. It wasn’t comfortable, not by a long shot—Ginny was a dead woman when Hermione got out of here—but it beat curling up cramped into a wall. Hermione had fallen asleep in the library at Hogwarts enough to know all about cricked necks.

Then, trying to pretend she wasn’t dying of thirst and hunger and irritation, Hermione closed her eyes and tried her hardest to fall asleep. A moment passed; movement from the direction of the wall distracted her. Cracking open one eye just in time to see Draco tugging at the pillows on the floor, Hermione scooted over in mild alarm, thinking for one stupid moment that he meant to smother her.

Nudging her leg to get her attention, he spread his hands in front of him, trying, she guessed after a second’s confusion, to convey a truce. He pointed at the chair and at the wall, and rubbed at his neck, looking annoyed. Sighing, she moved over slightly. She was a big girl. She could share her pillows. Really, she could.

Draco settled himself down onto his back and, try as she might, Hermione couldn’t avoid touching—at the very, very least—his arm. She rolled on her side, determined to ignore him, but suddenly that was impossible to do. She could hear him breathing; she could feel the warmth of his arm on her back. She could smell the faintest traces of his cologne, and it was an alarmingly not _awful_ scent. The sleepy little sigh he made as he cuddled down into the pillows made her stomach flip in an odd way and—

She had to talk to him before she had time to think through things she’d promised herself would never see the light of day.

She tried, really she did. She pushed against the hex with all of her might, framing words and insults and lies with her lips. She told him that she hated him and always would, and Draco heard none of it, save for an odd rasping.

Worse yet, instead of responding, he flopped onto his side as well, dropping an arm heavily over her waist. Hermione went too still, afraid to breathe. He was asleep—she could tell by the gentle rise and fall of his chest—but this was just too much. He felt warm and strong and deceptively safe when she knew, when she knew—

It was then that her eyes fell on his arm, exposed when his shirt bunched up against her side. She knew the Mark was there; she’d seen it before. Now, though, it seemed to leap off his arm, black and dark and ugly.

He had recanted, she knew. He was here because he’d seen the evil of his ways. He’d had a chance to kill her, and hadn’t. But once… just once…

Sighing, she moved her hand and touched it with her fingers. Never before had she felt a Mark, and she found that she’d been holding onto a rather superstitious notion that doing so would result in dire consequences to her person. It was raised slightly from his skin, and she traced her nails along its edges, trying to feel the evil magic that had branded his skin; trying to feel his beliefs.

But he was here, and he had betrayed his side for theirs.

Folding her fingers around his wrist, Hermione closed her eyes and simply gave in. She couldn’t ignore him—she had never been able to ignore him—so she stopped fighting against his arm, stopping straining to avoid contact. Sighing, she cuddled down into the pillows and Draco by consequence. Eyes shut, she let the sound of his breathing lull her asleep.

**  
 **Hour Seven**

Draco awoke with a start, uncomfortable on the floor and choking on a mouthful of messy curls. Spluttering, he pushed Hermione’s hair out of his face, trying to ignore the fact that she was huddled against him, all warm and soft and sleepy, and that she was _snoring_ , which was both unusually loud and endearingly forgivable.

Grumbling unheard nothings, he tried to free the arm he had draped over her—and how embarrassing—as he intended to rise and resume his earlier pacing. Her fingers, however, locked down on his wrist, holding him in place. Glancing over her shoulder, he saw her hand clutching at _that_ arm, saw her fingers curled around his Dark Mark.

Draco’s heart literally—and rather pathetically—stopped beating. For one unusual moment, he found it hard to breathe. It was an accident, a coincident, but for one passing second, Draco felt acceptance flood past the walls of his insecurities, rendering him senseless and putting all of the things he’d been trying admirably to ignore right out there in the light.

It was impossible, he knew, that she had secret things she didn’t think of that rivalled his own. She hated him, or at the very least held him in contempt. She probably hadn't even seen the Mark before falling asleep, so it certainly didn't imply _forgiveness_. If they could speak, he knew they would not be here, not be anywhere near here. He knew if the door were open, she would be gone.

But the door wasn’t open and they couldn’t fuck this up with words. Holding himself very still, he rested his cheek against her hair, and thought things he’d never dared to think before.

**  
 **Hour Eight**

Hermione awoke, if at all possible, to the noise of Draco’s thoughts. She was surprised to find her hand still curled around his wrist, but didn’t loosen her grip when she rolled to her back.

Draco was awake too, and he was staring at her with an odd intensity. Glancing down, she followed his gaze to her hand on his arm and swallowed hard. When she dared glance back up, his expression had softened, and that was a look she _had_ seen before, a look he had used back at Hogwarts on Pansy Parkinson.

Hermione’s stomach flip-flopped. Everything she had fought so hard to hide even from herself had to be apparent on her face, really it did.

“Hermione,” he mouthed, breath whispering warmly across her cheek.

It couldn’t be, she thought. She had hardly realized these things herself, and it was inconceivable that Draco might have not only realized them but reciprocated them as well. It was absolutely overwhelming; she knew if she’d had the ability to speak, she wouldn’t have been here, and neither would have he. Silence was an odd thing, and she had never experienced it with Draco before; had never passed the time without fiery battles that hindered her most private thoughts from forming into fruition.

But Hermione couldn’t speak, couldn’t chase herself off with words, couldn’t coldly murder any of her own feelings with a twist of her tongue. And so Hermione simply blinked and mouthed his name right back.

He moved very slowly then, thinking perhaps that his actions would startle her. She wasn’t startled—not in the way he would have imagined—and saw the kiss coming long before his lips found hers.

There was a moment of pure bewilderment—she couldn’t speak and she was snogging Draco Malfoy—but she pushed it aside, in favour of opening her mouth to his tentative explorations. Shifting back to her side, she let him pull her flush up against him as his lips learned hers, first with a shy sort of hesitation and then with growing urgency. She snaked her hand in between them, pushing it up under his shirt, and rubbed the scars on his belly as his hands pushed insistently into her back, as his legs tangled with hers.

She let his momentum carry them both over so that she lay on her back, completely covered by his body. His hands were everywhere and nowhere, and his lips began an exploration of her cheek, her neck, her shoulders. Warm pants of air chased goose bumps on her skin, and heady little thrills rippled through her belly.

She wanted to say _yes_ but couldn’t. He was speaking against her neck, she was sure of it, and she wanted to hear what he was saying.

Ginny and Pansy were still going to be dead women.

It killed her to do it because she wasn’t sure that what she wanted could be done. Still, she placed one last lingering kiss against his lips before pushing him slightly away. Confusion flitted across his face, but she touched her fingers to his lips, and then to hers; moved her hand up her throat and splayed her fingers wide, indicating talking.

“After,” she mouthed.

Draco rolled his eyes before rolling to his back, using both hands to mime two people talking.

“Never,” he mouthed back, looking pouty. His hand people proceeded to kill each other, while he gave her a pointed glare.

Hermione laughed, strange and soundless, folding her hands around his. She mashed their fists together, twining her fingers with his, and didn’t care what it indicated.

Moving her lips slowly, she mouthed, “Think of what fun that will be!”

Draco laughed then too, before catching her for one final kiss. It was late, very much so, and she was drowsy. Cuddling into his side, she told her brain to shut up, and let sleep take her once more.

**  
 **Hour Twelve**

“I can’t believe we forgot them in there all night!” Pansy exclaimed, pushing past Ginny to get to the door.

“Do you think they’re even alive?” Ginny asked, feeling a twinge of guilt.

Shrugging, Pansy produced her wand and ended the locking charm on the door. Together, the two girls rushed into the room, stopping short at the sight before them.

Their two friends were very much alive, and very much entangled with each other upon the floor. Hermione was snoring, and Draco, too, was breathing from his mouth, although nowhere near as loudly. Pansy couldn’t suppress a snort.

“I think we just got rendered a little less dead,” pointed out Ginny, smiling to herself. She felt quite satisfied in the knowledge that both of them had learned their lesson. Then, lifting her wand, she whispered, “ _Finite Incantum_.”

**The End**


End file.
